104 
THE SORCERESS 
 
 
Oh fruit forbid !  was there but one ripe tree 
 Fruitful for me ?   
Passion is gone—the wine is spilt 
And the sword broken at the hilt. 
 
I have invoked the demon of debauch. 
 All blinding wines, all soul-devouring crimes 
 I have called to me, drilled the scarlet mimes 
Of murder to my own fantastic nautch. 
 And now-these demons mock me ;  for their pay 
 They sucked my inmost soul away ;   
And—naught may move me—I am lost, 
Exenterate, exhaust !   
 
So therefore, Pan !  a corpse I come before thee 
 To call down Life from thine abode beyond Death. 
 Three times I circle thee :  three times my breath 
Breathes on thy mouth ;  three times I do adore Thee, 
 Till thine eyes glitter and thy loose lips curl 
 Make me the innocent alluring girl 
Of fifteen years—that were !  so to recoil 
The same sweet garland. . . . Hither comes the lad 
With shy looks—let me blind him, let me soil 
 His swan-soft body and his soul swan-pure !   
  Ah !  but my life is glad. 
  Pan smiles !  My suit preferred. 
 Now, let these eyes allure 
And this worn throat throb, thrill with songs to woo him, 
  Fiercer than ever mortal heard. . . . 
Ha !  to him !